


Daud: Rebirth

by cosmicfurie



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dishonored - Freeform, Gen, Original Character(s), The Knife of Dunwall, daud - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicfurie/pseuds/cosmicfurie
Summary: A year has past since Daud promised never to return to the empire, but he didn't get very far. He lives on Caltan, Tyvia, relishing his new life as the strong man of a local apothecary owner and black market dealer. His identity a secret, he lives fearing for the day it all falls to pieces, again, but until then, he has some work to do. In this first part of many (hopefully), we meet Daud once again, and his new friend, an OC named Ida Wilder.





	1. Luther

 

No matter how hard he rubbed or scrubbed until his hands were raw--the mark remained, blacker than anything-- black like those eyes, the lingering abyss. They shown in every mirror, pool of water, sword blade like onyx orbs, revealing nothing but saying everything at once. They were in his dreams,in the shadows, followed around every corner. In the depths of his reveries they were accompanied by a voice--the voice--the voice of ages; the voice of shadow. 

 

Daud awoke, shaken by cold hands. Cool sweat dripped down his back. His right hand flew to his gloves and he pulled them on, hiding the mark of the Void. He cleared his throat, finally bringing his eyes to the young woman who stood before him. She wore all black, from her stiff trousers to her high collared blouse. A thin hand rested limply on an ornate dagger hilt; black lacquered nails tapped on the jewels as they glittered in the dim candle light. A stolen trinket with a dull blade, Daud recalled. Ida Wilder. 

 

“Sleeping already, old man?” Ida’s pale blue eyes appraised him gently, ignoring the gloves, but paying close attention to the sweaty sheen on his forehead. Daud wiped it away, self conscious. Through the small cracks in the shutters, he could see the sun, a thin, golden line on the horizon. He thought it’d been longer--the whole night--or hoped, rather. He hadn't slept a whole night in a long time. 

 

He removed the the ragged blanket from his person, bundling it up and tossing it onto a locked chest. His eyes lingered on the chest, its gnarled grain emblazoned with dull bronze vines and leaves. A faint hiss emanated from it. He had lost the key over a year ago, on purpose. 

 

“You alright there?” Ida prodded, steadying his shoulder. He hadn't noticed, but his knuckles were white on the bed frame, his breathing shallow. He let go. 

 

“Yeah, just a...just a long day. Took a little nap. Get to be my age and naps are the only reason you’re walking.” Daud swallowed hard, bringing his gloved hand to the back of his head. He smiled weakly as he pulled his fingers through his thinning hair. “What’ve you got for us today?” he stood straight up with a deftness that seemed to take Ida by surprise. Her breath quickened, and her gentle grip on the hilt tightened for a second.

 

“Three boys, teenagers--Walking along the docks, stumbled upon a cache of dried oxrush and bull rat babies.” 

 

“What do they want for it?” Kids. They always wanted something, or needed rather. These days a pouch of gold wasn’t enough. They could go to the elite districts and pick pocket that if they really wanted. No, they would want something they couldn’t get anywhere else. 

 

Since the end of the plague and the strict anti-rat sanitation measures were implemented across the empire, rat fetuses were hard to come by, and oxrush--well, oxrush wasn’t indigenous to Tyvia. The climate’s too harsh, the ground too hard. Both ingredients were invaluable in the creation of anti-toxins, and expensive on the black market these days. Daud figured Ida would take what she could get and work with it. 

 

Ida concealed a grin. “They want some pickled spirits and a dazing potion.” 

 

Daud chuckled, they’re kids after all. Both concoctions were strong hallucinogens, and in small doses were popular for recreational use. In larger doses they could completely incapacitate an individual, indefinitely. “Alright, when’s the deal?”

 

“Haven’t heard back yet--which is fine. I’m missing an ingredient for the pickled spirits.”

 

“Which, the pickles or the spirits?” Daud cracked a grin, but Ida’s eyes were locked on the slivers of sunlight as they passed through the shutters, almost mesmerised. Her hand fell from her dagger. Now it was Daud’s turn to prod.

 

“Ida?” he grazed her elbow, and she shook. 

 

“What? Oh, sorry.” She pressed her palm to her forehead, eyes still glassy. “Like you said, long day.” she pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. The writing was smeared, but legible. “Read it; memorize it, and remember--

 

“Don’t be seen.” he finished.

 

Ida snorted. “Right, don’t be seen. Evening, Luther.” 

 

She left his room, tipping her hand in an awkward good-bye and closing the door behind her. Luther. He smiled. Sometimes Daud forgot that Ida didn’t really know who he was; that a long time ago, he once donned a mask had the city of Dunwall on it’s heels, knife to the throat.  
He listened carefully as her footsteps faded down the hallway. Only when he heard the door to the chambers open and close moments later did he read the note. 

 

Kirkwall Distillery. Midnight. 

 

The distillery was located not far from Ida’s place. Dilapidated, it was once the main producer of fine Tyvian wine and spirits until it failed to update production procedures, losing time, money, and workers.. He turned to the candle and held the paper over the tiny flame, watching as the words rippled and turned to ash, throwing them into the metal waste bin.


	2. The Distillery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud travels through Caltan to the old Kirkwall Distillery looking to complete a job.

Daud shrunk into his heavy hood, his cowl obscuring his sharp features, reducing them to a dull collection of scars and a nose that might have been broken once or twice. The biting sea winds cut through every fiber of his cloak, his hands shaking slightly. If he closed his eyes tight enough, he could imagine they were the warm, humid breezes of Serkonos, and not these unforgivable ice daggers. Once he got moving, his body would forget the cold, muscle memory recalling nights of shadow and stealth. 

He could hear waves breaking on planks of ice, and steam boats struggling to make their way to the docks, their desperate gasps heard above the gail. These were common noises in Caltan; noises Daud had come to appreciate. This late at night, they were comforting reminders of what he left behind. 

The clouds were saturated with snow, the thick flakes falling slowly, and as he stood on his balcony he relished in the beauty. All over Caltan he could see pillars of smoke rising from chimneys, from the most ornate mansion to the smallest, dilapidated shack. The streets were bare, the tire tracks of carriages and hoof marks of horses quickly buried beneath the fresh accumulation. This was the perfect night to go out and be unseen. 

The mark on his hand ached, begging to unleash the power, the gift, but Daud ignored it, stepping forward. With one hand he grasped the railing and pulled himself up, balanced on the icy iron. He looked down, two stories below, his heart in his throat. His eyes slid up and down the fire escape, to other roof tops, calculating the best route, and in an instant, he lept. Daud’s gloved hand clenched the fire escape ladder above him and he pulled himself up, swinging back and forth, and releasing once more. He landed, crouched on the eaves of the cloak shop across the alley. He crept along the side, rounding the corner. He could see Ida’s windows, curtains drawn, a candle flickered on the sill. 

By day, Ida ran an apothecary--the apothecary in Caltan--providing home remedies for strange rashes, headaches, and many other minor maladies. She inherited the establishment from her late mother. The austere apartments perched on top were inherited as well. The dull, red brick looked gray in the winter dim, and the letters of the sign were chipped, worn from harsh, salt air. She put everything into this shop, but she only made her real money on the black market. Ida’s gift with potions reminded Daud of his own mother though he would never admit that out loud. No, Serkonos was a long forgotten period of his life, even more forgotten than Dunwall. 

He tore his eyes away from the window and focused instead on the rooftop above. He climbed with ease the few feet to the low roof, but hesitated for a moment as he stood to full height. Something pulsated in the air, like a taut thread twinging on his ear. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his hands up on either side. The air stilled around him and a familiar warmth settled on his shoulders. Daud, it whispered. He shook the voice from his head, and rolled his shoulders back, clenching the marked hand into a tight, unyielding fist. 

He took off, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, taking icy air into his lungs. Fresh snow masked his footfalls, but one wrong landing, and he could be sent sliding down to the street below. Tiled roofs, tin roofs with a multitude of pitches, he landed on each of them carefully, and silently wondering if the inhabitants below could hear him. What did they make of the quiet patter above? After about a half hour Daud saw the crude Kirkwall signage. It's once ornate letters pockmarked, revealing layers and layers of old paint. 

His neck was slick with sweat but the cold no longer bored into his bones, and he could no longer feel the pulsating twinge in his ear. It took time to get used never relying on the Outsider’s gift, but with time he remastered an art he thought was lost in Serkonos. Old man indeed. He thought, not just recalling Ida’s words but those of someone from his past. A trusted ally, a usurper. Though, what had drawn Daud to Ida was her likeness to his old apprentice, Billie Lurk. He wondered where she was, what she was doing now that he was gone. Perhaps when she received word of his self-imposed exile she swooped in, taking her place as the heir apparent of the Whalers. But, he doubted it. That life was gone for her. When he left, he took the Outsider's gift with him. The Whalers would never be what they once were.

Floodlights shown on the Distillery, removing the darkness, the edge, the mystery from its facade. Icicles glittered, their pointed edges threatening the lives of the street life below. At this hour, the only life was that which relied on the cover of night. Women paced demurely in fur lined cloaks while nervous patrons waited in dimly lit alleys. The exchanges were quick and one by one, they paired off, disappearing into the shadows to the closest hovel to share warmth on this blasted night.

The path to the Distillery took to the streets--no more rooftops or awnings afforded an aerial route. Daud slid down the fire escape of an old cobbler store into an empty alley. Graffiti belonging to the Sea Daggers, the gang that frequented this area marred the old brick. Daud rolled his eyes at misshapen letters as they formed a nearly illegible phrase. Return to Salt. The phrase echoed in Daud’s mind as he attempted to parse its meaning. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a clatter. His muscles tensed, and his hand immediately went to his sheathed blade. He pressed his back to the shop’s wall and delicately pushed forward. As quickly as the noise came, it was silent again. As he rounded a corner, blade first, he peered into the gloom. Nothing. The noise could been anything. Ice sliding from the roof, a rat, anything. 

He relaxed his muscles, breathing deeply, but kept his blade ready. Rat or not, he would be prepared. He crept from the alley and onto the main thoroughfare on which Kirkwall Distillery stood. Empty kiosks lined the streets, their thin, frosted panes covered in thick paste and newspapers. Headlines from years ago were barely visible, a testament to the desolation. A newer headline caught his eye. In bold black letters belonging to the papers of Dunwall, the familiarity of the words struck him. ROYAL PROTECTOR TURNED KILLER: CORVO ATTANO IN CUSTODY FOR THE MURDER OF EMPRESS JESSAMINE KALDWIN. Daud seethed at the memory as it crept into his mind. His blade ripping through flesh, blood spurting from the wound. And Corvo Attano helplessly bound, unable to aid the Empress. 

Daud reached up and tugged at the corners of the paper. The glue cracked as he pulled, and moments later, the adhesive forfeit the paper, relinquishing the fragment of his past. He folded it and put it in his pocket. 

The streets were empty, save for one last woman looking to make some more coin before the night was over. She called to him, but Daud ignored her, pulling his cowl up even more. Don’t be seen, Daud. She gave up, apparently, and drew her hood up as she walked away. The bounce in her step replaced with quiet dissatisfaction. As she walked away, Daud darted from the kiosk into the cover of shadows beneath the looming stone archway that lead to the Distillery’s grounds. 

Dilapidated statues stood hauntingly in the courtyard; at one point they depicted cheerful Tyvians, drinking wine and dancing, but now their crumbled faces were bleakly eroded, marring the merriment.

Fresh tracks led to the front door, whether they were from his contact, Daud couldn't be sure. He sheathed his blade, and scanned the old brick for footholds, so he might climb. He caught a glimpse of the moon peeking through the clouds, its thin beams landing on the old stone wall. It was time. Gingerly placing one hand and foot upon the wall he began to free climb. His goal, a broken window, was a few meters above. He took even greater care than when he ran atop the roofs. 

His heart pounding in his chest, Daud grasped the sill above minutes later. He pulled himself up and over, landing quietly on the metal scaffolds just below the window. For a moment he lowered his cowl, sucking in fresh air, and scanning the distillery floor. Glass and old distilling equipment, rusted and worn from perpetual disuse, littered the floor and small flakes of snow fell from the holes in the partially collapsed ceiling. But there on the production floor, amidst the shards and equipment was a figure--their hood drawn, their hands placed firmly on their waist, and their feet tapping noiselessly. 

Daud swung down the scaffold, pulling his cowl over his face once more. As he approached the bottom, he jumped. The sound of his landing echoing throughout the floor. The figure’s hands flew a holster on their hip and pulled out a pistol with shaky hands. 

“Easy there.” Daud said, raising his hands in feint surrender; he patted the small pouch on his own hip, the sound of jumbled coins ringing out. The figure paused and returned the gun in their holster. They cleared their throat and brought broad, gloved hands to the hood, lowering it in a single motion, revealing a dark face with clear brown eyes, framed by wild hair. Daud studied the face, fear tugged at the corners of their mouth, pressing their lips into a thin line, but anticipation, excitement--the thrill--were alight in the eyes. Daud’s eyes went from theirs to the satchel on their back, and as if reading his mind, they removed the bag and held to towards him, dangling it by the straps. 

Daud unclipped the pouch from his belt and held it up. 

“You’re Luther?” They asked. 

“Should have asked that before you showed me the goods,” Daud said, trying to keep the exchange light. They merely stared at him, their face blank.

“Ida sent you?” their voice was flat, their eyes appraising him cautiously

“Yes.” he said, an uneasiness settling in his stomach. 

They cleared their throat, and satisfied with the answer, stepped forward. It was then Daud noticed their feet. They wore no shoes, their feet wrapped in thick bandages, and they tiptoed across the distillery floor, carefully sidestepping the broken shards. The hand off was quick--in an instant, Daud’s hands bag, and theirs the pouch. Deft fingers pulled the mouth of the pouch open and their eyes scanned the contents. They briefly glanced at Daud before turning away, pulling the drawstring on the pouch, and placing it into the folds of their cloak. 

Daud’s eyes narrowed. Peculiar, he thought. He threw the bag over he shoulder and turned to leave. As he stepped towards the door, they spoke again, “We look forward to doing business in the future.” We? He tilted his head towards them, their figure hovering at the edge of his vision. Of course, the black market was a complex network, having many moving parts with many different operators. They were playing a part. Though their shaky hands, fear pressed frown, and eyes betrayed them. They were new to this--green as Serkonos palm leaves. Daud stepped back, his gaze lingering on their back, but he turned away, eager to leave and return to the apothecary. 

As he reached the front door he ran his fingers through his hair, his left hand hovering over the knob, aching, pulsing. The twinge returned, the stillness surrounding him again. It was as if a thread tugged on his neck; he found himself twisting around, the whispers in his mind. He faced where the stranger once stood, but what remained was no person, no lingering footfalls of their retreat into the night, but threads of shadow, flickering into nothingness, as if no one had stood there at all.


End file.
